


Parting The Crimson

by CalamityCain



Category: Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Arranged Marriage, Bondage, Food Poisoning, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Jotun Thor, M/M, Red Riding Hood Elements, Role Reversal, Size Difference, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-02 22:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10953774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamityCain/pseuds/CalamityCain
Summary: Prince Loki of Asgard has been wed against his will to the mighty Jötun warrior Thor. But he will not surrender to the union so easily, and Thor must pursue his bride across the frozen wilds in a hunt of honour.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this started as a Red Riding Hood AU but turned into...i don't know, something else. I felt the Jotun/Aesir role reversal was a lot more interesting (also because frost-giant Thor is just magnificent) and also the arranged marriage trope because why _not_ milk a common trope to death?
> 
> plus, this is the closest I get to a slow-burn-ish sort of fic in that there is Stuff That Happens before the porn bits.

**\- 1 -**

 

I was sent to await my husband in the wild woods between the mountains.

 

Dressed in gold-trimmed leather and a ceremonial crimson cloak, I was the sacrificial child. The smallest and weakest of the proud sons of Asgard who had been hidden away until a diplomatic opportunity with Jötunheimr arose and an arranged marriage was in order. One clear morning, my older brother Helblindi had unceremoniously woke me with the news: that I was to be – no, _had been_ – promised to the barbarian war hero known as Thor.

 

It had been a hasty thing, barely planned and quickly officiated. The opportunity to forge an alliance had, initially, left my sire and king in a dilemma, for both my viable siblings had been betrothed; and so a mate worthy of the mighty Thor would have to be chosen from among the noble folk. (What a shame it would be to have only a runt-child to offer!)

 

But then, at the lavish banquet orchestrated to court Jötunheimr’s favours, the warrior prince had chanced to lay eyes on me and find himself smitten. Admittedly, I had never looked lovelier: my eyes were lined with gleaming ash from the mines of Nidavellir and framed with tiny jewels, while my dark hair – so often overshadowed by the golden manes of my Aesir-kin – showed off the gold filigree woven through it to perfection. The delicate rings on my wrists and fingers would have looked silly on a brawnier frame; on me they were as an enchanter’s glamour.

 

Yes, I do enjoy talking about my looks at length. Those who underestimate me would say they are all I have to my name.

 

Thor Odinson’s gaze would follow me for the rest of the evening and the long night, much to my chagrin. His gaze would seal my fate better than blood or ink could.

 

My voice mattered little in the whole sordid affair. Before I knew it my things had been packed, the dowry had exchanged hands, and then I was being adorned and scented and the dreaded red cape produced. Now, as I approached my dreaded destination, I gripped the ritual offering a basket of gilded fruit from the Vanir until my knuckles whitened.

 

A gust of snow blew back my hood and whipped my hair, near chafing my face raw. My painstakingly braided and bejewelled coiffure threatened to come apart. I had hated it anyway. My fingers had lost feeling at the tips as they gripped the basket tight.

 

I was just about to turn back and make up a tale of my groom forfeiting his promise, when I saw them.

 

Crimson eyes. A hungry gleam amidst matted fur and hair.

 

Wolfish in appearance, he towered in the half-dark as he approached. The fur belonged not to him, of course, but the garments he wore, made for protection from their native ice-lands. And doubtless the feral appearance it gave him served to strike fear into his foes.

 

He was not unhandsome, even from a distance. The markings of an honoured warrior lined his crown and cheeks and jaw. A long thick mane of white-blond hair framed his face. He smiled at me, and I shivered.

 

What sharp teeth he had.

 

Before I knew it, his hand was on my hood, throwing it back. The cold air hit me anew; I flinched and shoved him away. He growled like an animal.

 

“I merely wish to gaze upon my bride. Or is your face too fine for the likes of me, young prince?”

 

It took a few seconds to recall my manners. “We have plenty of time to know each other. At least let me warm my lips before you claim them.” My voice sounded stiff; prudish.

 

“Ah, yes. I have heard much of your lips and the tongue behind them. Sharper than a jötun ice blade and just as cruel.” With a small laugh he gestured to the smallish but well-furnished cabin ahead. “Let us hope some warmth will soften its edge.”

 

The cabin was to be our halfway house before the storm cleared and we made the journey to Jötunheimr’s palace in the mountains. My new home, the prospect of which was a bitterness in my throat.

 

So piddling was my value that even a modest entourage was not due me. This was a constant knife in my side. Instead, it had been decided that the marriage was a fine occasion to honour a Jötunheimr tradition, originating from some overwrought romantic folk tale of a lone bride bearing gifts for her groom who would claim her from the wilds. Supposedly it showed fortitude: in fact, proper tradition would have the bride make a forty-day sojourn as proof that he or she was a healthy mate fit for life in eternal winter.

 

The wind’s howl was silenced as we stepped into the womb of insulated timber. I whispered a spell through my fingers and the fireplace crackled to life. If only magic would ward him off tonight, I thought. I wanted nothing more than to curl up in the sprawling bed alone and curse my entire family – from Lord Laufey my thrice-damned sire, to my blameless little brother Byleistr – for leaving me to my fate.

 

No such luck. Barely had I set down my basket that his hands were forfeiting the fruit for the prize of my flesh. Large barbarian hands reached for my cloak. I pulled back and heard a ripping sound. A fresh wave of resentment hit.

 

“So this is Thor, Jötunheimr’s finest warrior!” I snarled. “Tearing the clothes off his bride like a wild wolf. What next? Will you throw me onto the floor and ravish me?”

 

“I might,” he replied with equal ferocity. “From the moment we met you have been nothing but hostile. Perhaps I should have prostrated myself before you and kissed your royal feet. Forgive me for being of hardier stock than the Aesir, who are raised in eternal sunshine. Now, if you’ll pardon my lack of court etiquette…” He made to remove my garments, but I backed away and – in a childish act that surprised myself – threw my boots at him. They hit him squarely on the forehead.

 

The stunned look on his face was almost worth it.

 

Then he strode toward me with the full menace of his hulking frame, his red glare, furs bristling as if they were an extension of him. I remembered the slim dagger I’d hidden up my sleeve. I whipped it out; and there was a thin crimson line across his cheek. It bloomed into a river, livid on his azure flesh.

 

He roared. And for a moment I thought I was done for.

 

But with admirable restraint, Thor stilled his fists. He moved instead toward the bed. With deliberation he stripped off his garments until he wore only his smallclothes, then claimed the mattress for his own.

 

“Be that way, then,” he said with restrained anger. “You can sleep on the floor, my precious prince, and perhaps be humbled for it.”

 

Then all was silent. Gradually the fire burned low, and I heard his breathing slow and knew he was asleep. As for me, I was miserable, full of cold rage and a hunger all of Idunn’s golden apples could not sate. In such a state I sat huddled in a corner until the act wore me down into a restless sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

In my half-sleep, the witch-giant Angrboda crept into my thoughts. Memories of warm lazy days spent in her company, allowing myself to become her spoilt pet. Despite her years being far advanced than mine, she had been openly affectionate from our first meeting. Our relationship was hardly frowned upon – unbecoming though it might be for Helblindi or Byleistr, who had promising courtships to look forward to, I had then been considered a considered a lost cause and so had the strange freedom of flouting certain conventions.

 

Happiness, as a concept, was foreign to me, a discontent and neglected child. But some form of happiness I found in her arms, between the folds of her generous thighs. She was both soft and sturdy, hard as a tree as her dark red hair tumbled about us, the light catching in the silver whorls of her skin that marked the witches of Ironwood. I do not know if she truly loved me. But it sufficed that she made me feel loved.

 

The day I was betrothed, I had not even time to pay a visit to Ironwood; so instead I wrote a hasty letter, only my bitterness lending eloquence to what might otherwise have been a clumsy childish rant at the unfairness of life.

 

I wonder if she ever sent a reply.

 

I did not wake until the slamming of a door shook the small house. Once more I was curled up in a corner, comfortless wood pressing against my back.

 

The fire was out. And Thor had left, most unceremoniously.

 

For a long moment I simply sat there in a stupor. The absence of his presence was like a weight off my shoulders – off the very air. Had he decided I was a useless bride and deserted me for good? Did our failure to consummate the union change the tune of his desire that had set us on this path?

 

Was I free to walk out?

 

 _Free._ The one word took hold of me and would not let go. I leapt up, put on my slightly ruined but still serviceable cloak, strapped on my boots and rushed out the door like the wind.

 

It was a beautiful morning. The dawning light cast its gold on the pristine blanket of snow. But it was not a beauty I stopped to savour as my feet tore across the ground, trying to put as much distance as I could between myself and the nightmare marriage.

 

Just as I thought I had a chance, he saw me. I heard his howl of rage.

 

Drawing in ragged desperate breaths, I kept running. I headed for the caves where perhaps I could lose him among the pillars of ice. Fleeting thoughts of the shame I was bringing upon the House of Laufey crossed my mind briefly. I banished them. _Let them drown in shame, then,_ I thought. _The disreputable son._ They have ever treated me as second-best; why should they care that I’ve sunk a little lower?

 

 _“LOKI!”_ My would-be husband’s cry echoed through the ice. What a deep voice he had. In less coerced circumstances I might have found it attractive. As things stood, it was the last sound I wished to hear.

 

I ran deeper into the cave. His thunderous footsteps followed me.

 

I don’t recollect how much time passed before those footfalls faded away. Cold makes short work of the senses; my scholar’s lungs, used to libraries and lamp-lit corridors, were starting to feel the rawness of the air these jötnar breathed so easily. After a few hours with a small conjured fire my only company, a terrible homesickness overtook me. I thought of balmy evenings spent throwing jibes at my brothers over mulled wine. Of peaceful solitude between bookshelves, letting the spidery writing of spellworkers past crawl over my hands. Of some trivial trinkets given me by a smith who had briefly fancied me. I thought of Angrboda and her big-boned grace.

 

The gates of my home, the home I had taken for granted all my life, would not open to me unless I showed up before it with Thor on my arm.

 

I briefly entertained risking the ire of Heimdall. The gatekeeper of the great bridge with his fearsome golden eyes that saw all, and some say saw through all. Would he have mercy on this slight, pale-skinned stranger forced far from home to marry against his will…?

 

No. That sounded pathetic. I was a prince; a second-rate son, a non-heir, but a prince nonetheless. And I was better than…well, better than that brutish warlord’s son I was married to. Still, even flame-conjuring princes need to eat. I could not, unfortunately, magic edibles out of thin air. So I got to my feet with a sigh and went in search of food.

 

.


	2. Chapter 2

**-2-**

 

Time moves slowly in the frost.

 

The lines of my palm were deeper, as if ice and wind had etched grooves into the flesh. But there was no pain, only a growing numbness. I knew I was in danger of slipping away if I carried on like that. A part of me didn’t care.

 

Sometimes I thought I heard him howl. He hunted me like a beast, draped in his wolf-skins, white-blond hair whipped into a fearsome frenzy. Perhaps he had lost some of that animal rage in exchange for a hunter’s keenness. Perhaps he sniffed the air and smelt my trail, an all-too-Aesir scent in a land of hard-skinned frost giants.

 

My fine crimson cloak was starting to fray. Already it seemed to have lost some of its colour, as if drained by the blue-greys and whites of my surroundings. Perhaps it was fading vision. Everything looked darker even though nightfall was hours away.

 

Or was it?

 

I looked to the skies and tried to gauge the time. As I did so, the jar in which I’d been carrying a small flame slipped and shattered as the magic holding it together dissolved. And I had not the reserves to make another. What used to come easily was taking thrice the effort with half the result. Was I already losing the will to live? Had the very idea of this dreaded marriage been sapping my strength from the moment of its conception?

 

A handful of berries remained in my pocket. Their skins were firm and slightly rough, the taste a deep sweet purple just like their colour. Bursts of darkly sweet juice upon my tongue with a faint bitter bloom. I had found them on a cluster of frost-laced bushes and wondered – briefly – if they were safe.

 

Once I caught my reflection in a frozen patch of water. Loki of Asgard, grinning and devious, had all but disappeared. In his place was a grey-faced wraith with lightless eyes who looked like he had spent a century wandering in a land without sun. Unexpectedly, I had also seen stray glints of jewels still entangled in my hair. I had taken one out (malachite, to match my eyes) and stared at it and laughed: a shrill, mad sound. The gem in my palm was an irrelevant thing: glorious, beautiful, useless.

 

A deep chill seeped through my knees. I was kneeling in the snow, unaware of having fallen. Had a whole day passed already? But two days is enough for a homesick wanderer in a loveless wedlock.

 

_Let him hunt me down,_ I thought. _Let him catch me and devour me whole._

From between the trees, his silhouette emerged.

 

_What sharp teeth he has. What big arms._

 

The white smothered my face. Ice filled my nose, my mouth, my veins. There was a second or two of pain; and then there was only sleep, dark and welcome.

 

_I lie in the belly of the beast. My red cloak wraps me like a womb, and I am a child again. Briefly I wonder where Helblindi is; he has promised to bring me along when he sneaks into the Vault to get a glimpse of Great Surtr’s sword. But the thought slips away, for it doesn’t matter much, and I am so warm. My father – no, my king – calls me from _Hliðskjálf. I do not care to attend him.__

_He has not been my father for years, nor I his son._

_Someone pulls away my warmth; I am loathe to stir. But the rough hands are insistent. I long to remain in the womb of my distant past. I want to beg to stay, except pride won’t let me beg. Instead a wordless cry rises from my throat as if I am nine again._

_The strong hands pull me away, and I rise –_

_I jerked forth as if pulled by strings. Bitterness fills my throat as I twist to the side; I throw up, violently. Twice, three times, four. Hot tears wet my cheeks. Everything hurts._

_“Poison from the berries,” a low voice rumbled. “You’re lucky you did not have enough to kill you.”_

 

An answer formed on my tongue and never left it. I fell back into blackness.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Soft pillows; the crackle of firewood. I could barely lift my eyelids.

 

A wooden object – a spoon – pushed at the dry opening of my mouth. I rejected it; there was a trace of bile behind my lips still, and it rendered the thought of food bitter. But the spoon was stubborn and got its way eventually. Some kind of stew warmed the back of my throat.

 

“You have not eaten anything save those berries in three days. Do you wish to waste away, my fine prince?” A hint of sarcasm sharpened the voice. That deep, growling voice. I had not known it capable of such softness.

 

When at last I opened my eyes, the familiar gaze – like rubies set in blue – met mine, framed by a silver-blond halo. His animal intensity was dimmed in the flickering fire-glow. Perhaps I was too exhausted to be afraid. Yes, exhaustion: that was what I felt now that the numbness was slowly lifting. A deep, desperate fatigue that replaced every other sensation and soaked into the very marrow of my bones.

 

“The stew is surprisingly fair,” I rasped at last. “Perhaps this marriage will be less of an ordeal if tempered by your cooking.”

 

This elicited a chuckle. “I am called to battle every so often, and won’t always be on hand to serve you with a silver tray. Have _you_ ever lifted a ladle, Loki of Asgard?”

 

No; come to think of it, I had not. My chilly silence only proved him right.

 

I shifted beneath the blanket and realised that while he had stripped off my snow-soaked garments, my red cloak remained. Briefly outrage rose within me at the possibility of his having manhandled me while I was unconscious. But the oddity of the unbreached cloak overcame it for now, and I raised the question. He arched his brow in reply.

 

“Do you not know the traditions of your own people, prince? I am not allowed to remove the cloak until such time as we consummate our union.”

 

I traced the rip in the crimson fabric as I recalled his attempt to do exactly that, and my hasty rebuff of said attempt.

 

“Asgard is full to its walls of antiquated customs, some of which are practiced at whim or not at all.”

 

He threw me a wolfish smile, baring those sharp white teeth again. “Perhaps I have yet a chance of claiming that cape the honourable way.” He leaned close to resume feeding me. With what strength I could muster, I pushed his hand away and took the bowl from him. “I will feed myself. Thank you.”

 

He chuckled. “What an arrogant little snot I married. Thank the Norns you’ve such a pretty face.”

 

I would have hurled back burning insults ten times over at that smirking brute’s face. And conjured pointy object or two, were I in better health.

 

But the stew smelt absolutely delicious…

 

 

* * *

 

 

The poison still coursing through my veins made every movement larger than a twitch sheer agony. As if forcing me into repose was not enough, it also gave me strange and vivid nightmares –

 

_I am naked and lost in the woods. My knees are scraped bloody from an earlier fall. I do not have even my cloak; it has disappeared into the mists of the tangled trees with monstrous leering faces protruding from their gnarled skins._

_Pale goblins rise from the ground, like larval creatures who have never seen sunlight, their eyes huge and without pupils. They are blind and yet their fingers reach toward me. One of them touches me and I cry out – it is the touch of a corpse, cold, worm-like, somehow_ wrong _– but no sound emerges, for I have no tongue, no throat. My throat has sealed itself and suddenly I cannot draw breath anymore. I collapse as the world spins and darkens._

_Then the curse is lifted, and I am free to breathe again. Before my head has had time to clear, I am assaulted by thunder._

_No, not thunder. A growl; deep, earth-shaking growl that makes the goblins disappear. My betrothed has come for me. But it is no Jötun warrior. No, this is a fanged hulking beast, a wolf-man four times the size of a true wolf, with pale fur that grows wild and thick and eyes that gleam blood-red._

_Fear paralyzes me. My magic never leaves the back of my tongue; I am helpless. I can only choke out the smallest of sounds as the huge arms encircle me and the wolf beast carries me to my death. My senses are smothered by the musk of its matted fur, and just before I lose consciousness I am aware of an unexpected rush of heat in between my –_

 

I awoke whimpering like a child before quickly biting back my cries.

 

Opening my eyes – my aching, burning eyes – I saw Thor lying next to me, seemingly deep asleep. Good; he had not heard.

 

My eyelids fell back shut but the night terrors would not leave me, threatening to resume their chase as soon as I slipped back into slumber. A cold feeling crept about my chest and tightened its claws and I began, involuntarily, to sob. Even this movement hurt; but I could not help it. I longed to home again and far away from this comfortless cabin, this comfortless marriage that had only to be set in stone with its consummation.

 

A heavy arm wrapped itself around me. I feared its weight would be crushing, but instead it felt just right.

 

As my sobs died and the fire in my chest settled, I began to feel the chill of the night. But then the blanket was pulled tighter around me. I sank into its warmth. And then I knew nothing more.

 

.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> _DEAR READERS, feedback wanted: are you comfortable with the first-person narrative so far or do you have an issue with it? By that i mean does it detract from your enjoyment of the story?_
> 
> _I didn't consciously intend to make it a first-person POV; it just sort of happened that way. (most of my writings just 'happen', tbh. they turn up uninvited and demand to be told) I realise it can be tricky to not sound like a self-insert and to keep a perspective so the narrator doesn't end up sounding like a self-proclaimed hero without the flaws that make for good characterisation._
> 
> _Please let me know if you're cool with the way things are or if you strongly prefer a change to third-person.  
>  Thanks!_
> 
> * * *

**-3-**

 

A day and half later, while Thor was out hunting, I lost all feeling in my left leg and gained a terrible pain in my right one.

 

Like a possessed, crippled wooden manikin, I slid across the floor to the cabin’s emergency stock of medicinal herbs. That was when the pain shot up to my spine and made me unleash a long howl into the still winter noon.

 

The steel-cold sharpness turned fire-hot as it raced through my arms and toward my fingertips. I passed out before it got there.

 

When I awoke, I found myself a prisoner in bed. That is, my wrists and ankles were tied to the posts with a shockingly strong rope made of braided strips of bedsheet. Another one of my husband’s remarkable talents had had chance to shine.

 

“You were trying to run again,” he stated, matter-of-factly.

 

“Was not.”

 

“The berries’ influence has not yet worn off. Sudden exposure to the cold still effects intense pain. You know this well.”

 

“You have no proof that I even harboured any notion of fleeing.”

 

“You were halfway out the door when I found you.”

 

I fumed.

 

His voice took on a gentler timbre. “Arranged marriages are as common for my people as for yours, if not more,” he said. “One does learn to accept and even thrive in such a union. Especially once a child takes seed. You must not work yourself up into such a state, thinking you are doomed to some unbearable fate.”

 

I had begun to soften to his words – but the patronising tone of the last part (“you must not work yourself up” as if I was a soft-headed child patient instead of his mate and equal) riled me up all over again.

 

“Oh yes, and you would keep me bound and subject to your will until I acquiesce, no? until I accept my fate? Until, perhaps, you force a pregnancy upon me so I may change my ways once I am saddled with your spawn?”

 

He frowned as his skilled hands worked at skinning the game he had brought back. “I will release you once you are well enough – and will see reason enough – not to harm yourself.”

 

I threw curses at him, spat the sharpest most stinging words I could find, including slurs regarding his ‘barbaric’ race of stinking ice giants. “Release me or I shall be forced to prove my superiority over you, you unlearned oaf!”

 

His red eyes burned into mine. “You want to be more careful with your words in your precarious position, little prince,” he growled. “As for being unlearned and uncultured, who is the one spitting coarse insults as payment for being fed and sheltered?”

 

“Abandon me to die, then!” I snarled, and followed up with string upon string of fiery magic that spilled from my practiced tongue, intricate syllables coming faster and faster until the whole cabin shook and the static in the air made Thor’s blond-white wolfish mane stand on end.

 

There was a mighty crack. The roof was starting to come apart.

 

“Stop it, Loki!”

 

I did not stop. A chunk of wooden beam dislodged and fell but a skin’s breadth from Thor’s head. A loud harsh ripping sound followed – of wood and iron splintering apart.

 

“LOKI…!” With a roar he shoved me down into the pillows and clamped a hand over my mouth, whereupon I sunk a vicious bite into the soft spot of his palm.

 

I expected to be struck in the face till black and blue. Instead he released me, and I drew breath to resume my destructive spellwork. But then a thick roll of cloth cut me off from my magic. “Nnnggfff!!”

 

My thrashing was in vain as the fabric wound snugly about to effectively still my tongue and dissolve the remnants of magic in the air, which crackled once, twice, and was dead.

 

As Thor knotted the gag firmly behind my head, I felt a fluttering dread build up: now I was truly helpless, completely at the mercy of my betrothed. And he looked none too pleased at the repair work he had ahead of him.

 

The baleful look he threw me said all too clearly, “Are you happy now?”

 

Not that I was in position to reply.

 

He took two lumbering steps toward me. Terror gripped my heart, unexpectedly strong, and colder than the breeze now free to assail us through the roof’s gaping hole. I was struck by the reality that Thor could well kill me (perhaps even rape me brutally before doing so) and then claim he had done so in self-defence, with evidence of my magic in plain sight.

 

His hands – what large hands they were – raised from his sides as if to do terrible things.

 

If there was one thing I truly loathed in life, it was to be deprived of the few weapons I had. As the royal family’s only runt, besieged constantly with subtle but stinging accusations of inferiority, it seemed a terrible injustice to take away what little I had, to lock me away from the magic running through my own blood.

 

And infuriatingly, with nothing left to do, I found my eyes tearing.

 

One more step, and one more, closing the distance between us. I shivered and shrank away from his shadow. A muffled whimper escaped the gag.

 

He was going to kill me.

 

A rough palm brushed my cheek. I realised I had squeezed my eyes shut in reflex, and opened them to find Thor holding my face in his hand with an unreadable expression.

 

Then he left me abruptly, diverting his attentions to mending the results of my damage.

 

He did not hear the pounding of my heart, or know that its quickening was a heady mix of fear and something else, something responsible for the heat in my belly and the firm, wet warmth between my thighs.

 

Some minutes passed before I was able to breathe normally again. Suddenly weary, I let my head fall back and surrendered to the thrall of dreams.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

_The woods, again. Except this time I’m in a cabin – smaller than the one Thor and I had been inhabiting, and much older. But it’s cosy and the bed looks soft, and clear moonlight streams in through the window. There is no snow here._

_The beast lays me down on the bed. His eyes wander down my unclothed body. He bares his fangs, and once more fear builds up as I fight the shock coursing through my bones, turning them to ice, and move._

_He pins me back down with a snarl. Like in the previous dream, the musky animal scent overwhelms me and I nearly swoon. The scent also awakens a terrible, confusing heat that rushes straight down to my loins and makes me harden, makes me ache and shiver, almost feverish in my arousal._

_He runs his hot tongue down my belly. I start to sob._

_My bones are leaden beneath my skin. I find I cannot move; even as his mouth and hands violate every naked inch of my body, I cannot move._

_My fear is thick, and so is my want. And it frightens me like nothing has frightened me in my life._

_As coarse fur presses into my skin, filling my nose and mouth, my sobs turn into whimpers, and then into uncontrollable moans. My cheeks are hot and wet still with tears, and my mouth falls open as pleasure turns into pain. For the wolf’s impossibly huge cock is forcing me apart now – and I am pulled onto its great length and impaled till my scream shakes the walls…_

 

A hard slap jolted me awake. I gasped and coughed and my sleep-heavy tongue spilled garbled words from between the cloth gag.

 

Thor’s hands – his real hands, not the wolf-beast’s – were shaking me back to reality. They were warm and large and comforting, and I found myself pressing my tear-streaked face into a calloused palm. It slid beneath my neck to cradle me like a child. I cannot say I found the sensation unwelcome.

 

“Are you alright, now?” he whispered. His own voice was still thick with sleep. It was strangely attractive. Without meaning to I found myself arching to close the distance between us.

 

As his other hand pressed into the small of my back, his scent weaving its way into my senses, I found I was very aroused – obviously so.

 

He chuckled as my hard cock began nudging at his thigh. “I suppose you expect me to take care of you, little prince.”

 

His fingers slid down my belly to where I needed them to be, and he began stroking me in maddeningly slow, circular motions. I squirmed and moaned and struggled beneath his ministrations, knowing he would take his time. He had taken himself in the other hand and soon was pushing himself to the brink of orgasm, his own cock deeply flushed and as firm as it would ever get.

 

Only the gag held back my embarrassing cries as I inched ever so close to release yet was denied it by the sweet torment of his teasing. He, too, was losing control as his beautiful face (how had I ever thought it rough and barbaric?) glistened with sweat and flushed a darker blue and his white-blond mane seemed to stand on end with his arousal.

 

When he withdrew his touch to leave me hanging, I all but screamed at him. If I’d had full use of my tongue. I might have well brought the walls down.

 

“I’ll let you come on one condition,” he growled into my ear. “You allow me to come on your beautiful body, my bride, and claim you with the mark of my seed.”

 

I could have wept with the indignity of it all – and of not being able to properly give my assent. But I was like an animal in heat with my burgeoning need and it was all I could do to nod.

 

In trying to recall that hot sweet maddening moment, I was never sure who came first. I felt the hot gush of his sticky spend on my thighs and belly; I felt my entire being stiffen and shake and give way to bliss, to boneless relief making my limbs into lead, except – unlike in the nightmare – I welcomed the tumble into helplessness.

 

For I knew, finally, that he would not harm me.

 

 

.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the brevity of this tale! you know how i am when it comes to anything with more than one chapter. still, i do hope you enjoyed all or at least most of it :)

**-4-**

 

“I tire of being naked,” I said on the fourth day on my convalescence. “Give me back my raiment.”

 

To this my betrothed only smirked. I swallowed my ire. Did this beast delight in keeping me bare and vulnerable, accessible to his touch at all times?

 

“Calm your anger,” he replied as he brought food to the table and I wilted into a chair. “I only wish to keep you from fleeing again. Apologies for making it a little harder to be out in the elements in your…current state.”

 

“Your apologies are devoid of truth.” I peeled open a morsel of meat, noting begrudgingly its perfect, pale pink insides. “And _I_ am the one they call lie-smith.”

 

“Oh, don’t fret. I am sure you will regain your skills once you fully recover.”

 

Smiling humourlessly at the jibe, I stab my fork into the meat, picturing it as his eyes. But the aggravation did not last long. Already his grin – which, after all, was without a trace of malice – was doing strange things to a place inside me I had not known existed. His cooking certainly helped. While he was hopeless at root vegetables, he had a deft hand with anything animal in origin, and even knew how to spice different game with the right herbs, of which he had a decent collection in an all-purpose pouch that almost never left his side.

 

An irreversible change had occurred after that hot, urgent night when he drew two more orgasms from my wrecked self before finally tumbling into sleep. In the morning, he untied me and cleaned the streaks of our combined fluids off me, then did things that threatened to make me spill all over again.

 

So it was that I removed my cloak, that arcane symbol of antiquated notions of purity. Without a second glance I cast it to the fire.

 

And then I gave myself away beneath the wet heat of his mouth that made me weak and weightless and insatiable. I felt at once larger than life and small, inconsequential, taken by those forceful hands that could break me but never did, encircling my waist, pushing me into the position of his choice. Not that it wasn’t my choice, too, in the end. For what could I do in the midst of inescapable winter but drown in the only thing that kept me warm and alive?

 

After a time we found our rhythm. We moved as one, and I could not tell where I ended and he began. The sheets smelt of his hair. He licked the cleft of my armpit as if it was a desirable body part. I let him pin me down and render me helpless; between us, nothing but the weight of my implicit trust.

 

Indeed, would spend an eternity an inch away from being crushed by the entirety of his being. I would give up all my treasures (well, except perhaps for my books) for the prospect of his fingers trapping mine as soon as I but thought of him.

 

His eyes brushed over me as I chewed on my food. “You’re looking better. By tomorrow, if the wind has died down, perhaps you’ll be well enough to travel.”

 

The last bite of meat became a hard lump in my throat. I had been avoiding all thought of becoming not just Thor’s but Jötunheimr’s bride, of fulfilling my role as a pawn in the union of two empires. I felt the weight of such responsibility unjust for a mere pawn.  And I dared not ponder the consequence if I abandoned my post now.

 

“I wish I could be wed to you, and only you,” I whispered.

 

“What do you mean by that?”

 

I washed down my dinner with the last of our mulled ale. The liquid was bitter on my tongue. “I wish that we were not who we are. That we could be together without the weight of our kingdoms hanging between us.”

 

He rose, then fell to kneel before me, once more breaking me down with his fierce beauty. His fingers brushed hair from my face.

 

“This _is_ who and what we are. I am a prince, with a prince’s duty; and so are you.” A kiss on my forehead. “But remember you are also my bride, and my joy. And more.” He cradled my neck and I closed my eyes, heady from his the force of his sincerity.

 

I buried my fingers in his hair and inhaled its scent. Before my head could assert itself over my pounding heart, I said to him, urgently: “Take me.”

 

“What?”

 

As he well knew, I was no blushing virgin; and our first act of intimacy had been followed by multiple others, but none that involved full penetration. For all my sluttish ways I held reservations about the sheer size of him. I had never had a jötun male as a partner. Surely I was unprepared to be impaled on that girth, that length.

 

_“Take me.”_

And yet I lay back and lifted my legs and allowed him to slowly open me up.

 

Slowly, sweetly, torturously.

 

His fingers, thank Norns, were marvellously experienced; none of the hasty jabs from lovers who had made me cringe before they made me wet. For calloused hands they felt remarkably smooth sliding in, well-covered in fragrant oil; they hit all the right places until I was shaking to the bone with pleasure.

 

“Are you ready for me, little prince?”

 

“Let us find out,” was my answer.

 

I cried when he pushed himself in, his hands locking my hips in place. I gasped at my body’s ability to hold him; gasped at how full I felt, the thrill of it, the frightening newness. Then, a rush of warmth that made me so hard it hurt. With pre-come leaking onto my thighs I began slowly to arch into him. He moaned, a low and intensely arousing sound, as he endeavoured to match my rhythm or perhaps settle my erratic movements into something more pleasurable for both of us.

 

The room began to turn white as I turned into an amorphous being made purely of sensation and my sinews and bones seemed to melt into nothingness.

 

“Breathe, love,” I heard him urge me. A hand stroked my neck, my mouth. I drew in a lungful of air. A series of moans escaped me, each louder than the last, as I found my voice again.

 

I felt the tip of his thumb teasing my lip and opened my mouth to take it in the way I fantasized of taking his cock, one day. Thinking of how it would be to have him filling my mouth and throat till I was close to choking. I sucked on his fingers as if my life depended on it, which served to drive him into greater heat.

 

He took hold of my cock and stroked me to the edge of release as inside me he himself grew hard to bursting, buried to the hilt. I felt his come shoot forth and soak the sheets beneath me. I followed shortly after. My eyes fell back in my head and I knew nothing for a moment. When the ceiling came back into focus, the desperation of my want was sated and left me blissfully heavy, the bed seeming to swallow me up.

 

A kiss, as languid and heavy as our bones, sealed the act with a promise of tenderness. He tumbled into the mattress beside me. An arm reached out to pull me close as his eyelids fell shut and his breathing slowed.

 

I took a moment to savour the simple closeness; the surprising softness of this huge man who had seemed such a beast to me when I first laid eyes on him.

 

Then nature took its course and I, too, was lost to the world.

 

 

* * *

 

 

If only the sweetness of our lovemaking could have lightened the burden of our inevitable journey.

 

On the last morning in our cabin in the woods, the day was light and the air crisp, carrying the scent of evergreens from deep in the forests. Faint sunlight tickled the dark leaves with gold. It seemed as auspicious day as any to usher in our new wedded life.

 

I woke early to wash properly and comb the tangles from my hair. Once it was dry, I wove the fine thread-like gold chains I had been wearing on my first meeting with Thor into carefully braided locks. Some of the jewels had been lost to the wilds during my foolish attempt at escape; there was nothing I could do about that. I knew my looks were sufficient to impress even with a lack of borrowed lustre.

 

During my more carefree days in Asgard I had enjoyed these quiet unhurried moments of vanity. Aside from what time I managed to steal in the library devouring folk tales or committing new spells to memory, keeping up my appearance was a duty that gave me excuse to be alone, to lapse into my own thoughts, concentrating on a series of minute tasks too fine for my brothers’ rougher hands.

 

Such similar hands – but with their own uncommon grace, blue-tinged and lined with warrior markings – encircled my own as I tucked the last braid into place. “You are almost too beautiful for the likes me,” he rumbled into the ticklish part of my ear. “I could undo your hard work right now and have my way with you on the floor – such is my need.”

 

I teased him with a smile that hid my misgivings. “After this day, you will have all the time you need to have me in all the ways you can think of.”

 

“Nay; I bore the full duties of a king-in-waiting once I came of age as the eldest child, and I will continue to bear them married or not. My time with you will ever be in short supply. We must make the most of every moment…” His lips covered mine as I moaned against them and felt my hardening sex meet his. Before I knew it I was grinding urgently against him, thankful I had not yet fully garbed myself and would not make a mess on my fine leathers.

 

He turned me around and held me flush against him, making sure I could feel the pressure of his huge cock against my opening. Held me in position so I could see myself in the narrow mirror I had been using to groom myself just moments ago. “Look, behold your own beauty, and how it drives men mad.”

 

I moaned again, startlingly turned on by my own appearance as much as his; my pale cheeks flushed and my mouth losing its composure, hanging open like a wet and wanton thing, his hands now running all over me and claiming the most intimate parts like they had always belonged to him. He rutted into me, not penetrating me as fully as he’d like, but allowing the head of his cock to rub between my cheeks while I burned to let him fuck me completely. In his hands I turned to liquid; I quivered and spilled and my words emerged shapeless and senseless. I shuddered; I cried his name; I spilled some more. His seed came forth and dripped down my inner thighs and mingled with my own wetness.

 

“Mmm, I have made a mess of you,” he murmured. “It’s only right that I help you clean up, love.”

 

I failed to protest as he picked me up and carried me to the bed, laying me facedown with my legs slightly parted. With my underclothes pushed up above my belly, my lower half completely exposed, I felt achingly vulnerable. His hand pinned me in place – quite needlessly, except to assert the dominance he knew I would submit to – as the other gently wiped me clean with a washcloth.

 

I drew breath sharply when I felt his finger trace my opening. “Oh, you are cruel,” I said as I grasped the sheets in frustration and renewed lust.

 

“I am a warlord’s son,” he replied, “with battle-lust in my blood and the urge to lay waste to my foes with not a tear shed for their struggles.” The kneading of his fingers grew more insistent as repelling magic sputtered and died on my tongue, producing nothing more than sparks that barely burnt his cool ice-coloured skin. “Were I more ruthless, you would be my prisoner as much as my bride. Be thankful for my gentler side.”

 

With that, his tongue slid between my ass and pushed itself deep inside, and I responded in the only way I knew how.

 

 

 

 

In the end, we gave up on arriving at the gates of Jötunheimr in a pristine state, still marked with the traces of our insatiable need when we set off. It was a propitious start to any marriage, after all. One that would always be tangled in the threads of politics and diplomacy and battles for power…but at its core, one built on desire. And yes, perhaps, love.

 

In the aftermath of our last union in the cabin, we dressed each other languidly, deliberately, as if partaking in some private ritual all our own. He adjusted the gold threads in my braids, pulled my ceremonial leather armour till it fit snugly over my lean frame. I fastened the thong with the pendant that bore his royal crest around his neck and combed out his wild white-blond hair, loving how it stood on end no matter what I did to it.

 

He had come to me on foot. But we both decided it was only fitting to bring his new bride home in more regal fashion.

 

The steed Thor had summoned with his horn appeared to have the blood of the jötnar in its veins. It was near twice as huge as an ordinary horse, emerging from the depths of the woods like a creature from myth; curved horn-like protrusions emerging from its snowy mane and dark eyes with a faint red gleam within. Mounted atop its magnificent form, and pressed against my husband’s bulk, I felt tiny, almost wisp-like.

 

But then I felt the strength running through his sinews and veins, and as they held me their strength became mine. His might sang like thunder through my blood. My heart raced with the thrill of it.

 

Below the pale sun of an unforgiving sky, we rode as one to the kingdom that awaited our reign.

 

~ 


End file.
